


Gone Native

by scheherazade



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, The Doctor is not a cat person, cat!fic, until he is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:17:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor regenerates as a cat. On the plus side, he's finally ginger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone Native

**Author's Note:**

> AU, but canon compliant at a stretch. Takes place between "The End of Time" and "The Eleventh Hour". Easily the most self-indulgent thing I have ever written, because I am not and never will be OK with how series 4 ended.

"I don't want to go."

Not the most noble of last words, in retrospect, but he didn't have long to regret it as the regeneration process turned him inside out. He felt his body dying, changing, molecular structure shattering before snapping back together with the force of collapsing suns.

After, the first thing he noticed was that his clothes were on the floor. That was new. But he wasn't cold. If anything, he felt — well, he didn't really know what he felt. Odd. Definitely odd.

The Doctor stretched his legs, shook out his shoulders. Thinking that he ought to at least cover himself, he reached for his trousers and promptly sneezed. God, what _was_ that all over his clothes? It smelled like...outside.

His senses all seemed sharper than before. Interesting. He needed a good look at himself, to see what else had changed. The closest mirror was by the big wardrobe with his Elizabethan attire, and he set off at a brisk stalk, claws clicking on the metal grille—

Hang on. Claws?

He ran.

_...no. No. Can't be!_

Staring back at him from the wardrobe mirror was a great big ginger-haired cat.

"Meow," he said, startling himself. _But that's impossible!_ he cried. Or tried to. All that came out of his mouth was a plaintive yowl. 

_I am so, so, so not a cat person. Except I am._

_Well, a cat._

_Not even a person._

His ears drooped as he looked at the mirror again. His eyes were like great big lakes in the middle of his face. He turned his head to one side, then the other. Walked carefully in a circle, noting the way his tail curled and twitched. He sat down, straightened his shoulders primly. Wriggled his nose once, twice. Bared his teeth.

It could be worse, he supposed. He _was_ a rather handsome cat. Well, at least according to the indigenous standards of seven planetary systems and their associated colonies. Earth included. Meaning he could still return to London and not be greeted with terrified shrieks or a complimentary laser beam from UNIT, who really needed to change their "shoot first, ask questions never" policy. He should have a chat with that commanding officer. Invite her along for a quick trip in the TARDIS, to Barcelona maybe, though he wasn't all that keen on the idea of dogs right now, even noseless ones, seeing as—

 _Oh, bollocks._

He laid his head down on his paws.

_Who's going to want to travel time and space with a cat?_

 

* * *

 

When Martha Smith-Jones heard the whoosh of that siren again, her heart skipped two full beats. Because it couldn't be — unless it was — but oh, it _couldn't_ be.

She went to the front door, and there it was, parked right across her street in the middle of West Kensington: the TARDIS. The blue door opened with a soft click, and her feet threatened to break into a run. It might not be him, she had to remember. It's probably not. He'd come to say goodbye to her, after all, the last time. He wouldn't be her Doctor anymore.

Even so, Martha expected she wouldn't care.

What she didn't expect was a cat.

Sure, the Doctor had taken in strays before, and a cat was hardly the most exotic of creatures. Not compared to that memorable occasion when a baby giraffe had wandered into the TARDIS as a result of their impromptu stop along the Silk Road. Martha had named it Yolande, before the Doctor managed to land them at an acceptable drop off point.

Giraffes, dragons, ex-Time Agents: Martha'd seen them all. She knew how life was, with the Doctor, and she also knew that the Doctor wasn't a cat person. At least, not _her_ Doctor.

But she knew that. She wasn't disappointed. If Rose could love the Doctor, one renegeration to the next, then Martha could damn well say hi to this new one, whatever kind of man he might be. Heart thudding, Martha knocked at the TARDIS door and peered inside — empty.

A soft weight butted against her ankle. 

Martha crouched down to pet the cat, glancing back once more at the Doctor-less console room. Had something happened to him? Perhaps she should get her mobile and—

"Ouch!"

She jerked her hand away. The great big furball had _bitten_ her. And seemed quite pleased with itself, no less. It nudged a familiar leather wallet towards her, pressing a paw to the surface as Martha watched in confusion. 

When the cat drew away, the psychic paper read:

MARTHA, IT'S ME. THE DOCTOR.  
I REGENERATED.

Martha stared. The cat stared back.

"Well," she managed after a long moment, "I suppose you'd better come inside."

 

* * *

 

He barely made it through the front door before collapsing in a ginger heap of exhaustion. Martha watched as the cat hiccuped, and from his mouth emerged a wisp of light — like pixie dust, like living suns. She blinked and it disappeared. The cat slept on. 

Martha shut the door behind her.

 _Right, then,_ she thought. _That's a Time Lord shedding all over my brand new carpet._

 

* * *

 

Mickey, predictably, tried to pick him up.

The Doctor hissed and struggled because first of all, Mickey's hands were _cold_ and damn this insufficient body, he was a _Time Lord_ dammit and — oh. _Oh_. Mickey was doing something absolutely amazing with his fingertips, scratching at that spot between his eyes, then behind his ears, then under his chin and _oh_.

The Doctor — _in complete mortification,_ shrieked some small part of his brain not yet overwhelmed by animal instinct — sagged like a limp noodle in Mickey's arms.

"Well look who's a happy kitty now," Mickey all but cooed at him.

The Doctor made a mental note to bite him later. Much later, probably, because that really did feel quite delightful now that Mickey's fingers had warmed up a bit and what _was_ that strange rumbling sound?

Martha covered her mouth with her hand.

"Oh my god," she giggled, "he's _purring_."

 

* * *

 

It lasted all of two days.

On Tuesday morning the Doctor head-butted her leg, leading Martha away from the breakfast counter and out into the street, and she knew. She walked him to the TARDIS in silence.

When they stood before the blue police box, she asked, "Can you still use a mobile?" He gave her an odd look; she shrugged. "If I rang you. Since, you know, cats don't exactly have thumbs or anything."

The Doctor disappeared inside the TARDIS for a moment, tail twitching in a way that Martha had learned meant he wanted her to follow. She did. Martha knelt by the ramp as he came pattering back, the psychic paper held between his teeth. He nudged it over to her.

YOU COULD ALWAYS COME WITH ME, it read.

Martha traced the edge of the leather binding with one finger, smiling. "We've been through this already."

He touched a paw to the paper. YES. BUT I WAS A DIFFERENT PERSON THEN.

"You _were_ a person then. Now you're a cat."

She regretted her choice of words at once. He lowered his head slightly, tail curled about his legs.

I UNDERSTAND.

"No, that's not—" Martha sighed. "It's not because you're a cat. You could be a two-headed Martian with eyestalks or something and I'd still love you."

He looked up at her.

"But I've got Mickey," she said. "I've got a life here, now. I can't."

He flicked his ears, indicating that he understood.

"But you could always stay with us."

That got her an inquisitive look.

WHY WOULD I DO THAT?

Martha gave a wry smile as she stood up. "Didn't think it would appeal to you much. Still," she said, voice oddly serious, "the offer stands, Doctor. If you ever want a warm house and a different kind of world to explore. We'll be here."

 

* * *

 

He could still fly the TARDIS, though not very well, given his limited reach and lack of actual arms and hands and things. She grumbled and dragged her feet and sparked at him when he tried to fly further than a few years in any direction. He stayed in while she worked through her moods, slept by the console and dreamed of silver trees and a red, red sky. 

He wanted to run, wanted to _leave_ every place they went. They spent scant hours, sometimes minutes, on new planets and entire galaxies. The TARDIS didn't approve. One haphazard trip to Woman Wept later, she slammed the doors on him as soon as he returned and took off. When he was allowed outside again, he found himself back in London.

The Doctor checked the year, figured he'd go see Sarah Jane.

K-9 found him first.

There were very few things that still frightened the Doctor, after 900-odd years of time travel and wars and the length and breadth of space. Unfortunately for him, his new feline instincts seemed to have missed the memo.

"MASTER!"

His back arced, hair bristling like pins, and he was bolting down the street before his higher functions had half an opportunity to catch up.

K-9 glided after him, eardishes rotating happily.

"PURSUIT MODE ACTIVATED."

 

* * *

 

Sarah Jane found him stuck in a tree, glaring sulkily at the robotic canine waiting on the ground below. 

"MISTRESS. I HAVE FOUND HIM."

Him? Sarah Jane glanced around. "What is it, K-9? What did you find?"

"IT IS MASTER."

"What do you mean, mast—" She stopped. Looked up at the cat. "K-9, are you saying that's...him? That he regenerated?"

"AFFIRMATIVE."

"...as a cat?"

"AFFIRMATIVE."

"But why was he running away from— _oh_." Sarah Jane had to lean against the tree to steady herself as she laughed. She couldn't help it. "Oh, K-9, you bad _dog_!"

K-9 rotated his ears with a cheerful whirr. "AFFIRMATIVE."

Up in the tree, the Doctor growled.

 

* * *

 

He stayed a week, caught an alien burglar, and let Sarah Jane spoil him rotten. Let K-9 chase him through the garden and kept telling himself to get a grip, but it never worked, because every time he heard those eardishes whirring, adrenaline flooded him as his every hair stood on end and his paws seemed to take on a life of their own. It was all rather humiliating. 

On the other hand, he got very good at climbing trees.

 

* * *

 

"Where will you go now?" Sarah Jane asked.

OH, ANYWHERE. EVERYWHERE. I'VE GOT A TARDIS. WHERE CAN'T I GO?

"You won't be able to rush in and save the day, is all."

He paused. I NEVER WENT AROUND TRYING TO SAVE THE WORLD.

"But you did. Because that's what you do, Doctor, and I expect you always will. Except right now you're rather small, and have no opposable thumbs."

CATS ARE QUITE CAPABLE, YOU KNOW. THEY BASICALLY BUILT NEO-REVIVAL DAMASCUS THEMSELVES, IN THE 47TH CENTURY. VERY CLEVER, CATS. EVEN WHEN THEY HAVEN'T GOT MY BRAIN.

She laughed at that. They shared a companionable silence. 

"Will you be all right," she asked, "all alone with the TARDIS?"

Anyone else might have missed the slight hesitation, the way he tensed before nudging the psychic paper with one paw.

I'LL FIND SOMEONE. YOU KNOW ME.

 _Yes, I do,_ she thought. Out loud, she said, "Well, I'm sure you'll have no trouble picking up some impressionable human girl, handsome fellow like yourself."

She didn't need psychic paper to see how that pleased him, the way he preened at the compliment. Sarah Jane smiled and offered her hand. His whiskers tickled her palm.

 

* * *

 

He ran into a chrono-displaced shapeshifter in Chiswick and nearly got himself drowned in a storm drain before an old man fished him out with a Tesco bag.

"Whoa now, it's all right, it's all right. There's a good moggy. You got nine lives to spare anyway, nothing to worry about."

He was trembling. From being carried, maybe, or from nearly drowning, or from the fact that his fur was plastered to him and stank of gutter rot. He tried to shake the water out of his eyes.

"Steady, steady. I'll put you down soon as we're away. Don't want you jumping in again."

 _I didn't do it on purpose the first time, you stupid ape,_ he wanted to say. All he managed was a water-logged growl. He thought he might vomit. The old man carried on obliviously.

"Something's gone and blown the covers off every drain on this street, see. Not had anything half as odd since — well, since my Donna's Doctor left us."

At that, the Doctor opened his eyes.

"Don't suppose you've seen a big blue box around here anywhere, eh?"

 _Well I'll be damned,_ he thought, then coughed a pint of sewer water all over Wilfred Mott's vest.

 

* * *

 

When Wilf brought home a soggy cat wrapped in his scarf, Donna just rolled her eyes. She fetched a tub and began filling it with soapy water, all the while roundly abusing careless neighbors, the lottery, the Lib-Dems and bloody BBC for the state of their streets and the strays and general quality of life these days. Didn't half mind moving to Italy, she didn't, if it weren't for the trains and all, and would you hold still, you stupid cat? She was only trying to save him from pneumonia and a premature death.

The Doctor growled as Donna dunked him into a tub in the name of 21st century Earth hygiene. At least the water was pleasantly warm. He closed his eyes against the soap suds and listened to her voice. Same old Donna. Good old Donna. His Donna. Only, she wasn't really his anymore.

But he was still hers. For whatever that was worth.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Donna went shopping. 

Sylvia stopped by in the afternoon to the sound of a crash from upstairs.

"Donna?" she called, already fearing the worst. A year since the Doctor and his madness and aliens, and Sylvia still jumped at shadows, damn the man. A lottery ticket didn't make up for what they'd all learned and lost, and none more so than her Donna.

Sylvia made for the stairs. She had one foot on the steps when a ginger blur streaked past her ankles, and she shrieked.

" _DONNA!_ "

"Catch him!" Donna yelled from the upstairs landing. "Oh, that damn cat! Where's he got to now?"

"A cat?" Sylvia felt faint. "When'd you get a cat?"

"It was gramps," Donna said, walking past her and into the kitchen. Sylvia followed. "Found him last night. Stray, I reckon, though he washes up nice enough. Was just trying to get him into a bowtie and— There he is!"

Donna swooped down at the cat as it tried to slip around Sylvia's ankles for the second time in as many minutes. Sylvia all but clambered onto the table. 

"Donna." She backed away from the wriggling mass in her daughter's arms. Its fur was nearly the same color as Donna's hair, and somehow that didn't make it any better. "Donna, you put that thing outside, you hear? Probably give you tetanus or something. Or rabies!"

"He's fine, mum," Donna said absently. She was straightening the cat's...vest? It was wearing a vest. A plaid, cat-sized vest. "He's healthier than those scrawny purebreds at the pet shop. Some lunatic probably turned him out just because he's ginger. I'm telling ya, the discrimination against my people goes all the way down to the animal world, it does."

Sylvia stared at the cat. It stared back. Twisted in Donna's arms, but didn't seem inclined to claw or bite her. 

"...you're keeping it, then?"

"Course I am!" Donna set the cat down on the table, scratching behind its ears. The cat nuzzled her hand. "Oh, Nerys is gonna _flip_ when she sees this. Where's my camera got to?"

 

* * *

 

Donna was fine. Donna had her job, her friends, her family; she had Shaun and a new house just down the street from her mum. She was happy, because she didn't know any reason not to be, and the Doctor sat by her at mealtimes and listened to her laughing conversations while she slipped him bits of haddock under the table.

Fish, he decided. Fish were wonderful in all shapes and sizes and times, evolving and bright and swimming in fog. But mostly in cream sauce, and from Donna's hands. 

He stayed three weeks, slept at the foot of Donna's bed, and didn't dream of Gallifrey even once. 

 

* * *

 

 _Rassilon's beard,_ he realized one Sunday morning, _I've gone native._

 

* * *

 

Martha woke in the middle of the night to something walking all over her stomach, and just managed not to scream. She hit the light switch. Lamp glow filled the room, eliciting a groan from Mickey and a faint growl from the ginger lump ensconced between the folds of the duvet.

"Doctor?!"

Mickey shifted sleepily. "Doctor who?"

Martha smacked his shoulder — " _Ow!_ " — and looked back at the cat, who cracked open one eye. She could swear he was grinning at them. Martha sighed, but couldn't quite hide her smile when she reached out with a hesitant hand and he nosed her palm, shut his eyes, snuggling closer.

"Welcome home," she murmured. 

 

* * *

 

Martha raised one anti-gravity clamp threateningly.

"You can either help me move this thing, or you can fill out the UNIT paperwork yourself for overnight-parking a time and space artifact in the middle of a street _again_. And you haven't got opposable thumbs."

He sniffed and stalked away with an imperious expression, but after Martha actually started attaching the anti-gravity clamps and the TARDIS began to emit warning sparks, the Doctor quickly slunk back to the console room. It was a short jump to Martha's backyard. The TARDIS sparked a few more times anyway, for good measure, whirred her sirens and materialized right on top of Martha's would-be flowerbed.

The Doctor strolled back into the house, and Martha followed, smiling. 

 

* * *

 

The Doctor didn't ask why Martha and Mickey had chosen to live here. Why, after the traveling, after the wars, after Torchwood and UNIT and wandering the Earth — why they had bought a house in West Kensington, when Mickey consulted at Wycombe and Martha had turned down the job at Barts. 

If the reason was a temp in Chiswick, ten minutes away — if the reason was that Martha knew, had found and befriended and now watched over a woman who was no longer the companion she'd known, well. Martha said nothing of it.

She also said nothing when he slipped away for weeks at a time, only to return wearing brand new collars and vests, his fur groomed to a luxurious shine, and always that lingering guilt in his eyes. 

 

* * *

 

Donna called him a stupid, ungrateful cat every time he ran away and every time he returned. But she adored him. Wilf could tell. Same way he could tell that the cat loved her, too. 

So that made it all right, even when he disappeared in the middle of the night.

Because if his Donna couldn't have the Doctor and the stars, then Wilf figured that she deserved, at the very least, a bit of love that wouldn't leave even if it wandered, and wouldn't ask her to sacrifice more than she knew how to give. 

 

* * *

 

At the Doctor's request, Mickey sonic'd one of the dozens of collars Donna had bought him.

"Who looks at a _collar_ and thinks, 'yeah, this could be a little more sonic'?" Martha sighed in fond exasperation and left them to it. "Men. Honestly."

He only used it once, to break into Donna's car and rescue a very lost, very frightened baby starwhale. How it had gotten into a Honda Civic was anyone's guess. Between him and Martha, they got it back up into the sky, and then the Doctor made himself scarce before Martha could make him fill out the paperwork. He slept at Donna's for the rest of the week. 

Most of the alien stuff, these days, he left to Mickey and Martha and UNIT and Jack's Torchwood Three. 

He would come back for this later, he knew. He would always come back for London and Earth and 21st century humans. No point in creating fixed time if he could help it. He was probably out there right now, in the future, running around avoiding a redhead in Chiswick and a quiet street in West Kensington and all those other nobbly bits of tangled time that he'd catch up to soon enough. 

Life went on.

 

* * *

 

Life went too soon. 

Sarah Jane was first, and he wasn't ready. She looked so young still, so alive. Human sickness was a strange, strange thing. It happened quietly, in her sleep, and the Doctor watched at her bedside as she slipped away with a secret smile.

Mickey the idiot died defending Earth from an alien attack, only 32 years old, and a week later Martha left to look for what remained of Torchwood Three.

Wilf was an old man, and they'd all known it was time. Donna cried at the funeral and cried when she packed up his stargazing gear. It was a bitter February night, and her tears matted his fur as she bent over that old telescope. He curled against the crook of her elbow, huddling together against the cold.

 

* * *

 

He stayed with Donna until the end, even when it meant sneaking into the hospital to jump onto her bed and burrow under her arm until he was pressed to her side.

"What's this now," Donna slurred, just waking. She lifted her arm and laughed. "How'd you get in then? Charmed the nice nurse at reception and snuck into the lift, didn't you? Terrible pest control in this building."

He flicked his tail, neither confirming nor denying. Her fingers sank easily into his thick fur.

"Why would you ever come in here anyway, stupid old thing. All that's here's sickness and disinfectants. You probably haven't had a proper bath in weeks. Oh, don't give me that look. I remember the last time I tried to wash you. Right terror you are."

He groomed his paws. She scratched between his ears, and he closed his eyes, purring contentment.

"It's so quiet here," she murmured. "I think that's the first sound I've heard all day that's not the bleeping machines. Doctor's supposed to come by later, and they'll probably kick you out, so you best go before then. Though I'd rather have you than a doctor right now. Doctors never did me much good. I'm scared, you know, and they don't help, what with their instruments and charts and big words. I know they're trying to be reassuring, but it's just the way they are. Them in their big white coats and nice offices. So cold. Not like you."

He pushed his nose into her palm, her hand curved around his skull. Donna smiled.

"Oh, look at me, talking to a cat. What do you know anyway? You have nine lives and people to look after you and a nice bowl of cream waiting when you get home. This — operations and pills and nonsense, all this, it really is just nonsense to you. Us humans must seem so silly."

He pressed closer to her. 

"But it's all right, isn't it?" She traced the outline of his ears. "Daft old Donna with her cat and her leaky bucket of a memory. D'you know, sometimes I think I had a cat before. Long time ago. A great big ginger tom, same as you. Would be just like me to forget a cat. Maybe that's why you ran away, because I was always forgetting about you. But now you're back." Her voice was sad. "That'd be nice, if you did come back. It would."

She fell asleep with her fingers resting against his fur. He closed his eyes, summoned dreams of the brightest stars, the colors of creation and songs of freedom to drown out the beeping machines for as long as he could.

 

* * *

 

Martha called, sometimes, and the Doctor sat by the answering machine to press "play" with careful paws. 

_Hiya, it's me. In case you're still there. I'm all right but I'll be gone a while yet. You take care._

Beep.

_Saw Gwen Cooper in Cardiff. You remember her, from when the Earth got stolen? She sends her love and her thanks._

Beep.

_Sometimes I think we should have taken that job when Jack offered. Maybe it would have turned out better. Or maybe we'd've all got killed that much earlier. But seeing Gwen Cooper, it made me wonder._

Beep. 

_Are there supposed to be dragons in California?_

Beep. 

_Hiya. Been a while. I wonder if you even listen to these. Maybe you're staying with Donna. I just hope you're not alone. You know there's always Tish if you need someone to get you anything, right? She likes cats well enough._

Beep.

_Apparently there's a rogue Torchwood branch in Australia. Makes sense, I suppose, with all the weird stuff they've got down here._

Beep.

_Jack says hi, by the way._

Beep.

_When you go — when you're ready to go, leave the keys for Tish, would you? Don't tell her anything. I'll take care of the phone records and everything. It's better if they think I'm dead. They don't need me anymore, so it's time. I learned that from you, that it's good to just run, if it's time to go. But only when you're ready, because I meant it, Doctor, what I said all those years ago. It's your home for as long as you want. Until you're ready to go._

Beep.

_Keep my mobile with you, all right?_

Beep.

 

* * *

 

A car got him in the end. A sure sign, if any, that he was getting old, and it was time. He crawled back to the TARDIS, curling bodily against levers until they shifted, and she took off with a sighing whirr.

It's been a long time, a long life. He's ready to go.


End file.
